


Amnesia

by Sera_Clay



Category: The Blacklist (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-19
Updated: 2015-05-07
Packaged: 2018-03-24 18:49:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 11,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3780499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sera_Clay/pseuds/Sera_Clay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lizzington, AU, angst, romance<br/>I own neither the characters nor The Blacklist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Waking

Raymond Reddington sleeps, wakes briefly, in pain, then sleeps again.

He’s infrequently aware of unfamiliar voices, the discomfort of the tubes penetrating his body, the machines doing their tireless work to sustain his life.

Red expects Dembe’s large, warm hand on his forearm, Kate Kaplan’s dry-lipped kisses on his forehead.

He doesn’t know why he always wakes to find Elizabeth Keen in his room. Her hands are touching some part of him whenever she’s present. Holding the toes of one foot through the bedclothes when she sits at the foot of the bed. Fingers interlaced with his as she reads in the chair at his bedside.

He woke once to find her sleeping in that chair, bent forward at the waist with her dark head pillowed on his bed. Just touching his hip, his fingers tangled in her hair as if he’s been petting her in his sleep.

He doesn’t dream of her, hasn’t even dared to imagine holding her close since that conversation in the car when she confessed that she cared about him.

Red dreams of fire, and blood, and the astonished resignation that so often appears in the eyes of a person who becomes aware they are dying. So many faces, so many names he can never forget.

He wakes again to find Liz gently dabbing at the corners of his slack mouth with a hot, wet washcloth.

She looks lovely, perfectly made-up, wearing a bright blue blouse he’s never seen before. 

“Red? How are you feeling?”

Her gaze is tender, her smile almost intimate. Or maybe he’s delirious from the morphine?

“Sweetheart? Aren’t you going to give your wife a good-morning kiss?”

Liz bends down and presses her lips to his, her mouth tasting of coffee, her lips so soft, fitting themselves to his as if this were an everyday occurrence. She drops a kiss on the tip of his nose before pulling away and dabbing at his mouth again.

“Sorry about the lipstick.”

Such a blinding smile, he can barely focus on her left hand, now resting on his bare chest, her nails carding softly through his chest hair.

A narrow platinum wedding ring. He raises his own left hand despite the tug of the IV line, feels the matching band with his thumb.

Too specific to be the morphine. This can’t be possible.

True amnesia is rare, the stock device of soap operas.

But this room is empty save for the two of them, nobody watching. So why would she be playing such a part?

Red remembers a series of gunshots, turning towards them as if to say yes, aim at me, let her drive away, let her live. 

The smack of his head hitting the pavement. His life bubbling away, the too-familiar taste of blood in his mouth.

How long ago was that? Liz doesn’t look any older, accounting for the changes in her hairstyle, her make-up. 

But wait. Red blinks up at her smiling face.

Is that silver in her hair? Just a few threads at her temples.

“Rest, darling.” Her fingers stroking his chest in such a familiar way.

Whatever unknown future this is, Red can’t believe he would have married her, actually married her, unless it were safe to do so. The tension drains from his shoulders, his aching jaw loosening as he relaxes at last, enjoying her touch.

He must have prevailed. 

Incredulous, tears pricking the backs of his now closed eyelids, Red allows himself to slip back into sleep. Perhaps he’ll remember more the next time he wakes.


	2. Keeping Him Safe

Liz locks herself in the bathroom and flips open the burner phone.

“He’s awake,” she says briefly. “No argument out of him so far.”

She recounts the last visit from the doctor, answers a few more questions before bidding Dembe good-night in his time zone.

He’s managing Red’s business, providing occasional intel to the FBI as he hunts for the shooters.

The Swiss clinic is incredibly expensive, but they’ve complied with every requirement. No television, no internet, no calendars.

They believe she’s keeping him safe, dealing with his mental illness, his compulsions, while he heals from his injuries.

Nobody looking for Raymond Reddington expects to find a madman and his devoted wife, who drugs him repeatedly.

His injury no longer resembles a bullet wound after some nasty work by Dembe with a butcher knife, under Mr. Kaplan’s supervision.

Liz forced herself to watch.

The FBI believes she’s undercover, but on the hunt for Red’s assailant. Dembe brings an operative in her clothing and a wig with him to certain meetings to foster that illusion.

Liz, no less than his devoted people, would do anything to keep Red alive. Including lie to him, for his own good.

Whatever assurances he's offered her over the years, Liz never promised not to lie to him. She has to keep remembering that. 

And if Red doesn’t forgive her once he learns the truth?

Liz can live with that, so much more easily than she could live with his death. His kisses are achingly sweet, his puzzled expression so open, so trusting.

She has never regretted her marriage to Tom more than she does now. Even Red’s weak, confused gestures of affection while over-medicated are so clearly more real, so deeply respectful. Almost as if he truly does love her, and has just been waiting for an opportunity to reveal this side of himself.

He’s an experienced man. Of course he knows how to make a woman feel like she’s the center of his universe. But oh, it feels so perfect.


	3. Days Together

“Does that ring true for you?”

Red interrupts her mid-sentence. Liz has been reading to him from his favorite novelists.

Apparently his tastes haven’t evolved throughout the years.

She cocks her head to one side, pondering. Her eyes are the bright blue of the clear alpine skies outside, her slim white sheath dress a vintage classic. Red lifts her fingers to his mouth and kisses her wedding ring, his ring, damning the IV, the catheter, the intense pain that still blooms at the slightest jostle of the bed.

He wants her body pressed to his, to see and smell and touch all the glories of his wife’s beautiful body. To learn them anew.

“Yes,” Liz gives a decided nod. “If she loves him, truly loves him, there’s no depth to which she wouldn’t be willing to sink. If it would keep him safe.”

Their eyes meet for a moment in a glance of complete understanding.

They enjoy the same authors. It’s a glimpse of what must have drawn them together. Not just the passion lurking in the back of her eyes, the confidence with which she meets every challenge of his slow, uneven recovery.

Red has realized by now that there must be something wrong with him beyond the wound beneath his bandages. He’s watched the nurses change his dressings. How could he have allowed anyone close enough to stab him like that?

They don’t speak more than few words to him, always deferring to Liz.

Even the doctors step out into the hall with his charts. Out of his earshot.

Red would palm his evening sleeping medication and try to get some answers from the night staff, but it’s always delivered in a shot. He asked Liz to give him the shot, rather than the nurses, preferring not to expose himself to them any more than was absolutely necessary. 

He wants to expose himself to her as often as possible. Soon. He’ll be well enough soon.

“So you think she made the wrong choice?” Liz asks him, frowning.

Red gives a slow shake of his head. He loves intricately plotted thrillers, but he knows more than he ever wanted to about betrayal.

“But once he finds out? She needs his trust for him to allow her to keep him safe the next time. And the next.”

Liz shrugs, then marks their place in the book before giving his hand a gentle squeeze.

“I’ll be right back with your medicine, and some juice.”

She bends low to kiss him briefly on the lips, pausing to scan his face with concern as he catches her wrist.

“Another,” he says, “Don’t rush off like that.”

“Close your eyes,” she responds, and obediently Red lets his eyes close, feeling the softness of the pillow behind his head, the ache in his chest, the warmth of her breath. Liz kisses his closed eyelids, his forehead, his cheekbones, even the unshaven curve of his jaw, before allowing her mouth to cling to his. Kissing and kissing him until he can barely breathe, until at last he releases her wrist.

Her cheeks are pink, even through her face powder. He’s breathing heavily, arousal fighting his sluggish, drug-induced lethargy.

Liz wants him. Red can’t remember ever seeing this expression on her face before, not directed at him, but he knows desire when he sees it.

Soon. He’s determined to be well very soon.


	4. A Close Call

“I’m sorry, Dembe. I almost blew it.”

Silence on the other end of the phone.

Liz tries again. She has to understand, or she might make another mistake. It’s not safe yet for Red to leave the clinic.

“He said you might be inspired by our happy marriage ...”

She breaks off at Dembe’s soft sigh.

“Elizabeth, I do not discuss this lightly.”

She presses the phone tightly to her ear, waiting.

“My family, all of them, are dead. That’s why I would never have children.”

“But we’re your family now,” she responds automatically.

His low chuckle is so like Red’s.

"Yes, step-mother,” he says in a gently mocking tone.

Earlier in the day, Red asked if she regretted that they never had children together. Liz had to tell him that much, although she’s tried to avoid any specifics about their shared history. Claiming the doctors said it would be better for him to recover those memories himself.

She responded to his question in the negative, adding “But perhaps Dembe will present us with some grandchildren to spoil, soon.”

Red’s surprise, then obvious delight, is painful to remember. 

“I’m sorry, Dembe,” she tells him. “I can’t just turn it on and off.”

Liz feels married. She’s never out of character, now that Red is awake for longer and longer periods every day. And so very affectionate.

“Just a little more time, Elizabeth,” Dembe tells her. “We’re closing in on them. Just keep him safe for a few more days.”


	5. A Little Time, Alone

It’s early evening, and Red has finished his supper. Just an hour or two more before his nightly injection.

As if summoned by her thought, a nurse appears and lays a capped syringe on the tray at his bedside.

“Why so early?” Liz asks her. 

Red answers from the bed. 

“I requested a little time with you, alone.” His voice is low and deep. 

Tonight, for the first time, he has a small glass of cognac on his tray table.

Liz has managed to avoid the most obvious signs of Raymond Reddington’s distinctive personality - no hats, no cigars, none of his trademark clothing. And the cognac is not his usual vintage selection, but still.

They need to end this deception, and soon.

Red would never have allowed her to come with him into hiding, or Dembe to spearhead the hunt for his assailant. 

But he’s recovering, stronger every day. Asking too many questions. Flirting and teasing and paying Liz extravagant compliments.

As the door shuts behind the nurse, Red grins lazily at her over his drink.

“Notice anything different, my dear,” he smirks at her. 

Liz surveys the room, then his upright form, the covers at his waist as he leans against the high slant of the hospital bed with his knees slightly bent.

No catheter. She wasn’t informed.

The way that nurse winked at him. 

Red has arranged this. Her mouth goes dry as he folds down the covers. The nurse helped him remove his pajamas, as well.

“Give me a kiss?” he murmurs, holding his cognac to his lips. Making it so clear where he expects that kiss to land.

His eyes go quizzical as she hesitates.

“Lizzie? Is this something you dislike?”

Oh no. She wants the taste of him more than anything, she can’t turn her gaze away, and yet he thinks he married her. That he chose her.

“Lizzie?”

She finally meets his eyes, so tender.

“Is it that I can’t remember? Is that why you hesitate?”

Liz nods, feeling her fists clenching against the urge to touch him, stroke that sensitive, responsive flesh with her fingertips, then the very tip of her tongue.

Red gives a low, happy laugh.

“Lizzie, I may not remember our wedding day, but I do remember desiring you from the very first day we met.”

She blinks at him, holding her breath at the erotic drawl permeating his deep voice. His eyes lidded with memory, with desire.

“I was chained to that chair, my knees spread, and I saw you, and oh god, Lizzie, the sheer beauty of you, I could see everything you could become, the most amazing woman...” Red shakes his head, chuckling. “I so nearly embarrassed myself right there, in front of all your colleagues...”

She’s breathing again now, remembering the first moment she saw him, how she felt herself gasp at the impact of his gaze, the casual power of his body language. The way Red refused to hide his vulnerability, even joked with her about being a criminal. 

As if to tell her from the very first, you can rise above anything. Anything.

Liz licks her lips and takes him in her mouth. Loves him and loves him. With the language of the body, in which she cannot and will not lie to him.


	6. Done

"It's done." Dembe's normally quiet voice, louder, jubilant, as if he's had a few drinks. "They're all dead."

Liz is out in the hall with her phone, so very grateful the soft trill didn't wake Red.

The hum of the jet in the background. Dembe is on his way.

It's only been two days, she wants to wail. Two days of bliss with Red. He actually walked a few steps this afternoon.

When Dembe arrives, Liz won't have a husband anymore.

Red will be back on the move, the way he always wants to be.

And Liz will wash the silver from her hair, pack away her expensive wardrobe, and return to her duties at the FBI.

They have a few hours yet. She tucks the phone in her pocket, pauses with her hand on the doorknob to his room. He's sleeping. He still has healing to do.

She quietly lets herself back into the room, sits drooping in her chair at his bedside. In the dim light his familiar features are so remote. He never talks about his dreams.

Liz doesn't want to sleep. She may never watch Red sleeping like this again.

***

"Dembe, at the risk of sounding like Aram, please tell me that you're joking."

Red looks from Dembe's impassive face to Liz, standing slightly behind him and to the side.

No answering smiles. Even when he gives them his best version of a coaxing grin.

"You needed to recover fully, Raymond," Dembe says, hands hanging at his side, as they have been since their first, heartfelt embrace.

"This plan allowed all your people to stay in action, not guarding you and possibly drawing attention to your location." Liz sounds miserable, her hands clutched in front of her, rubbing at her scar. 

"So you two put your heads together and decided to pretend we were married? Hide me away like an inconvenient puppet?"

Red manages not to do more than scratch the side of his head once before allowing his hands to lie still at his sides. He wants to button up his pajama top tight to his neck, pull the covers over his head, and scream and weep hysterically.

"Lie to me and drug me?!?"

He wants to drag his recently deceased enemies from their anonymous graves and slaughter them again himself.

"The jet is waiting," says Dembe. "I brought your luggage."

He gestures to the three familiar bags that have accompanied Red on so many flights.

Suits and ties and scarves. They both expect him to return to the lonely, dangerous life of Raymond Reddington. To don his fedora and walk away.

"Lizzie, why?" Red asks her, even though he knows the answer. 

He's told her so often that he will do whatever it takes, to keep her safe. Apparently she's taken his instruction too much to heart.

She blushes, leans her head against Dembe's shoulder for just a moment, as if gathering strength from his touch.

Dembe reaches back, fumbles for her hand, gives it a squeeze.

"It worked," he says. "Our plan worked."

Red stares at Liz. She looks frightened and ashamed and angry.

"Lizzie. Come here."

He holds out his hand, the wedding band glinting, and she steps forward to his bedside and takes it. Her small soft fingers cling to his just as they always do. As they always have.

Red remembers things that never existed. That have never been true.

If Liz ever wanted payback for Tom, for Red inserting Tom into her life, this agony is beyond reckoning.

No success, no wedding, no safety, no love.

On his knees, about to die, knowing his body would be left as an anonymous decapitated husk with his head sold to and exhibited by his enemies, Red whispered her name. Knowing at least that she would survive him, would live and flourish.

He's so much more willing to die now.

Beyond failure, beyond humiliation, this betrayal of the few close bonds Red has allowed himself.

"You made the wrong choice," he says quietly. "Both of you."

Liz and Dembe look at each other, Liz still clinging to Red's hand. As if to one last touch. 

Red tosses her fingers away from him, clasps his hands behind his head so she won't see them shake, and spreads his elbows wide as if reclining at ease.

"I never want to see either of you again."

His tone as poisonous as he can manage. 

"Get out! Get out."


	7. Questions

Elizabeth Keen walks and talks and smiles. Her FBI colleagues eye her nervously.

There's no one specific sign they can point to, but she's just a terrifying shell of her former self.

"Like a robot," Ressler finally admits to Samar, sitting in a back booth in the private rooms of small, unmarked club frequented by government employees.

Aram looks unhappily down into his mixed drink, even the usual three cherries instead of one floating at the bottom providing no comfort.

"We need to talk to her," says Samar in a decided tone. "Something happened with Reddington."

Aram nods. "Something bad. Very bad," he agrees.

"She's not going to talk to us," argues Ressler, draining his light beer and staring sadly at the empty bottle.

"I know where she lives," Samar says, looking around the table. "I saw her one night, months ago, with that mixed breed dog of hers."

"Hudson," Aram nods again. "She gave him away to a friend. Right after Mr. Reddington was shot."

They gaze at each other, waiting for one person to speak first.

"Well? Are we going?" Samar says finally. "Because otherwise, I'm tired, and I'm going home."

Aram drains his glass, chews vigorously on the cherries.

"Let's go," he responds.

Ressler shrugs. 

"I'll get us a cab," he agrees.

***

Dembe Zuma answers the door in dark sweats and sneakers, ushers them silently into the living room of the small, minimally furnished apartment.

Liz is sitting on the couch with a laptop open on her lap, papers spread on the floor at her feet. She's wearing a long, dark blue silk robe over baggy plaid pajamas.

"What are all of you doing here so late at night?" she asks them, scanning from one serious face to another. They smell of cigarette smoke and alcohol, though none of them smoke. Probably from one of the social outings she always declines, when invited.

They all look at Dembe.

Liz shrugs.

"He lives here," she informs them. "So, anything you want to say?"

Aram finds his voice first.

"Is he? Are you?"

Liz gives him a level stare. Dembe chuckles.

"Keen, we want to help." Ressler holds her eyes as he speaks, his effort in the face of her scornful self-possession clearly visible.

"You're not yourself," Samar tells her, her dark eyes intense.

Liz looks over at Aram.

"I'm worried about Mr. Reddington, too," Aram says.

"Why?"

"Why?"

Liz and Dembe speak as one.

"The information we've been receiving - it's changed in the last week."

Aram looks nervously from Dembe's stern face to Liz. She stands and pulls the belt of her robe tight.

"How has it changed?" she asks him.

Ressler squints at her.

"It's been a long time since you spoke directly with him, hasn't it?"

Samar gives Dembe a speculative glance.

"Since when were you apart from Reddington more than a day or two?"

Liz looks at Dembe.

"Tell them," he says. 

So Liz encourages her friends to sit down on her wooden folding chairs that wobble on the cheap Berber carpet of her living room floor, and she tells them.

Tells them everything but how she feels. Liz can't avoid them knowing, but even Ressler is tactful enough not to mention it.


	8. No Answers

They gather in the apartment again the next night, with pizza and beer and information to share.

"Here's our most recent, independent footage."

Aram pulls up a blurry, wide angle shot from a camera at least two stories up. A night scene, a familiar figure in a long coat and fedora.

He's trailed by a pair of tall, heavily armed blonde women.

"The CIA calls them the Valkyries," Ressler points. "We don't know their names; just that they started guarding Reddington in Dubai. We think they're twins."

Liz looks over at Dembe.

"I don't know them," he confirms.

"What about Mr. Kaplan? Would she know these women?" Samar asks.

Liz shakes her head without adding more information. Red hasn't contacted Kate Kaplan since he left Switzerland, even though Dembe and Liz avoided any mention of her involvement.

Samar leans in closer. 

"They could as easily be captors as bodyguards," she offers, looking concerned. 

Dembe frowns down at the next image for a moment.

"No, there, see?" he points. Red has turned slightly, standing on a street corner, and the women have shifted their positions in response. "They are clearly bodyguards."

"So exactly how are his messages different?" Liz asks.

Red has continued to collaborate with the task force, but only from a distance. 

"Some of what he's telling us isn't correct," begins Aram.

"Are you sure?" Liz asks.

Samar nods. "Reddington has access to multiple sources. These are elementary mistakes - the wrong middle initial in the name of a contact, an apartment number just one digit off."

Liz looks at Ressler, who shrugs.

"I agree that he's signalling, but what or why?"

"And why the FBI?" Samar puts in. 

"If he's asking for our help, how would we be able to offer it?" asks Aram, looking up from the laptop screen where he has been trying to enhance the images. "We don't even know what continent he's on by now."

"I can find him." Dembe's voice is somber. 

Liz looks down at her lap, her close trimmed nails, the sore ridge of her scar where she's been rubbing it too hard once again.

Red. To see him once again.

The FBI has received no official notice that Raymond Reddington no longer speaks with Elizabeth Keen. Similarly, Dembe has not been removed from the network of trusted contacts in Red's organization who receive codes and phone numbers and operational access on a daily basis.

Red hasn't repudiated or shamed them publicly. He just doesn't come to the phone if they call.

Neither of them has tried past that first, terrible week.

"We're not going in blind," Liz says firmly. Gathering their eyes to her, lifting the laptop from Aram's grasp to begin the necessary planning. "We need a plan to extract him, one that doesn't require any of his assets to be involved."

The image of Red on the screen, as cropped by Aram, shows just his face beneath the tilt of the dark fedora. Dark circles beneath his eyes, bitter lines at the corners of his mouth. Such a bleak expression.

"You mean like, capture him?" Ressler sounds more excited now.

Liz gives a decided shake of her head.

"No, I just want to be able to offer him a back door. If he needs one."

Her friends glance at one another, and Liz looks up at Dembe for support.

"Raymond must choose," he says firmly.

***

Red lies back against the satin sheets of his hotel bed and examines the embroidered canopy above his head without interest.

Another luxurious suite of rooms, sunlight filtering gently through the lavishly curtained windows, illuminating his closet stuffed with expensive shirts and three piece suits and handmade shoes and a whole row of new fedoras.

He can hear china clinking from the sitting room as his bodyguards enjoy a lavish breakfast.

They order so much more than Dembe ever did, but seem to enjoy it so much less.

Dembe. Red misses him from the first moment he wakes up.

It took him no more than a week to regret his furious dismissal of the man who not only kept him safe, but made him feel at home no matter how many times they moved from one domicile to the next. After more than a month, he's still a little off balance.

Red has burned down his home both literally and figuratively by now.

He still can't, he just can't think about Liz.

The tears in her eyes, her wrenching sobs that first week when she called and he refused every call.

Then nothing. Not from her, not from Dembe.

Red finally had them followed, learned that Dembe is now living in her miniscule spare room, that she still works for the FBI.

He rolls on his side and tries to think about the upcoming day, the diamond smugglers he needs to interview, the brasserie where he plans to eat lunch.

Her dark hair falling over her face, her shining blue eyes. Her wicked, delicious giggles.

He could have forgiven her anything but those last two days. Red bared himself to her on every level.

Shoving the fluffy, over-stuffed feather pillow aside, he curls into a ball and allows himself to feel, really feel, the ache deep in his chest. Not his now-healed injury, but the longing for her voice, the feel and scent of her skin, the way he felt so safe in her arms. 

He's no longer safe. He'll leave this hotel today, keep traveling, provide just enough information on the next few blacklisters to the FBI to keep his immunity deal in place.

Aram will surely contact him soon.

His enemies are far too close on his heels. Red needs a distraction, or some intel on who is funneling information to them.

It's time to cash in some chips with the FBI. Aram is his best bet.

He's survived worse. Red has to make himself believe that.


	9. The Task Force

Aram eyes Liz unhappily as she paces back and forth across her small living room.

He's taken the whole day off to try and contact Red. But none of the channels he's used in the past have been working.

Dembe is making yet another pot of coffee. It smells strong and bitter, even at this remove.

"What haven't we tried?" Liz asks, shooting Dembe a glance to silence him. "No, not your numbers, we need to keep those in reserve."

He nods, filling his cup and taking a slow sip.

Aram's fingers fly over his keyboard.

"I never used it, but I think I saw him place an online advertisement once. It was gone so quickly I can't be sure, though."

"Try it." Liz leans down, hands him a burner phone from a full shopping bag sitting on the floor.

Aram turns the box in his hands.

"Here, I'll do that." 

Dembe takes the box, opens it, and quickly gets the phone set up and working, while Aram focuses on posting the advertisement. 'Pizza franchise for sale, cash only.' Just those words, with the phone number.

"Wow! That was quick!"

Aram meant to compliment Dembe, but the phone rings just as he begins speaking. Less than five minutes since he posted the ad.

They all stare down at it.

"Answer it!" says Liz.

Gesturing for silence, Aram pushes the button to put the phone on speaker.

"Hello?" he says cautiously.

There's a silence, then a familiar, deep voice.

"Aram! It's taken you long enough."

"Mr. Reddington? What can I do for you?"

"First, tell me you're not at work."

Aram shakes his head, shrugs when Liz gestures at the phone, then her mouth.

"No, I have the day off. Personal errands."

Red chuckles humorlessly.

"There's a covert operation currently in progress which is designed to result in the voiding of my immunity agreement," he says succinctly. "Someone on the task force is involved."

"Our task force?" Aram glances nervously from Liz to Dembe. The silence in the room has shifted somehow.

"I need you to pull the internal security feeds and figure out who at the Post Office is responsible."

"How do you know its one of us? On the task force?" Aram asks nervously.

"Every time I provide you with information on a blacklister, I'm attacked within 30 minutes."

Red clears his throat ominously.

"If it happens this time, I'll know that it's you." The menace in his voice causes Aram to flinch.

"This may take a few days ..." Aram responds, looking from Liz to Dembe again.

"Put up an another ad tomorrow," Red advises him, and then the line goes dead.


	10. Who Is It?

Liz stares down at the phone. Red didn't ask about her, or Dembe. Not one question.

She wants a hammer, to smash the phone to bits.

Aram reaches out and touches the back of her hand. She stares down at his fingers in shock.

"Who do you think it is?" he asks her, his voice quavering.

She's so selfish. 

"Samar was out for three days while we were tracing that fake sketch artist," she says reassuringly. "He did say 'every time' - even if we don't know anything about the attacks, he contacted us at least twice that week."

Liz says 'us' even though she means Aram. Will Red ever speak with her again? Or will she be reduced to eavesdropping and listening to old recordings, just to keep the memory of his deep voice alive?

"You will need to be very careful," Dembe advises Aram, filling his coffee cup once again. 

"And very thorough." Liz is on her feet again, pacing. The thought of Red being attacked repeatedly is almost unbearable. After everything they did to keep him safe while he healed.

"And apparently, very quick," puts in Aram in a worried tone. 

"Do you have any friends you would trust with this? What about Osbourne?" Liz asks.

"I will contact Mr. Kaplan," says Dembe in a decisive tone. "She may have additional resources to offer."

"Wait - all this footage has to stay inside the Post Office," protests Aram. "Doesn't it?"

Liz just gives him a fierce grin.

"Treason," mumbles Aram, fingers dancing over his keyboard once more. "I really, really hate treason."

***

Red stares at the small plastic phone in his hand.

"Cooper? You're sure?"

Aram sounds both weary and sad.

"Yes, Mr. Reddington, we're sure."

Red gives a quick shake of his head. He doesn't want to know who Aram has involved. Especially not if it was Liz.

He read once that people who attempt suicide by jumping off bridges often have the singular thought on the way down that all their problems in life could in fact be solved except for having just jumped.

That's how he feels about Liz.

"Thank you, Aram," he says, pausing before hanging up the phone. Red hears the younger man breathing through his nose, listens for whatever he plans to ask or say next.

"What do you need me to do next?"

Red gives the phone a puzzled look. Usually, all Aram wants is to end their calls as quickly as possible.

"Are you offering to remove him for me?" he asks with a smile, imagining Aram's reaction. 

"Do you want to question him, first?"

More and more curious. Strategy, as if he were talking to Dembe.

Red holds his breath for a moment. Perhaps he is.

This is an opportunity to make things right between them. Perhaps.

"Don't attempt that alone," he advises Aram finally. "I'll be in Washington in 36 hours. Post the ad once you have him."

Red hangs up quickly before he says anything he might regret. Anything more.


	11. The Meeting

Liz is the one to knock at the familiar back door late at night.

"Charlene, let me in."

There's a weapon trained on her the instant Aram is visible behind her, but the door is already open.

"Mrs. Cooper, wait." Aram raises his hands, although in his tight gray sweater and slacks he's visibly unarmed.

She lowers the Beretta as Ressler shoulders on in, closely followed by Samar.

The whole team decided to accompany Aram to meet Red. To deliver Cooper, but also, perhaps, to understand why.

"What is this about, Liz?" Charlene Cooper looks from one grim face to the next.

"Your husband needs to meet with Reddington," says Samar.

"Can't it wait until morning? You do all understand .. he's not well."

Liz shakes her head.

"I'm so sorry. We need to take him now."

Charlene Cooper sets the Beretta on her titled kitchen counter with a clatter.

"Then I'm coming with you."

They all look at Liz. Dembe won't like this. But Dembe is waiting in the car.

"We need to be sure he doesn't call anyone. It would be dangerous if we were followed."

Charlene nods, her shoulders relaxing.

Red is only expecting Aram and Cooper. This could get ugly so fast. 

Why is Liz kidding herself? Seeing Red is going to be horrible, impossible, bittersweet, the one and only thing in the world she wants right now ...

Everyone is waiting for her signal.

"Let's do this."

She sounds like Ressler, but her poor imitation is the best she manage without falling apart.

***

Red shakes his head as the group filters in through the cluttered entryway. The inner courtyard of the big, empty house is still and dark, lit only by the two flaming torches that flank his current bodyguards, the flickering light picking out their light blond hair, the gleaming barrels of their weapons.

"Hello, Harold," he says, not bothering to rise from his seat, an old armchair hauled out of the house and positioned squarely in the center of the large, bleak space, the flowerbeds filled with dead shrubs, the empty fountains on either side looming like round pits of shadow.

There are no other chairs.

They draw themselves up in a line, Dembe and Liz at the rear.

The whole team, and Cooper's wife Charlene.

Red rubs the bridge of his nose.

"Aram?" he asks in a warning tone.

Cooper lays a hand on Aram's shoulder as he begins to step forward.

"Did you bring me here to kill me, Ray?" he asks, stepping away from Charlene's grasp, her hand falling back to her side at his gesture.

Closer to Red. In front of his team.

"Who did you call, Harold?" Red asks him, deliberately not looking over at Liz. He can feel Dembe's gaze on him, registers the others glancing around nervously at the shadows that surround them, the dark windows that look out onto the upper story balcony.

Perfect for an ambush.

"Harold? What is he talking about?" Charlene has stepped forward to take her husband's unwilling hand.

"You know I can't tell you that." Cooper spreads his hands wide. Motioning to his wife to step back.

Red tilts his head, the gun appearing in his hand so smoothly that for a second nobody reacts.

"I'm so sorry, Charlene," he says, pointing the gun at her chest, "But your husband's a traitor, and he's trying to kill me."

His bodyguards tense as their weapons sweep to cover the group, standing so still in the torchlight.

"No." Cooper shakes his head, turning to look at Charlene in dismay. "No, I'm no traitor."

"Anyone else in his confidence?" 

Red scans the group - Aram looking sick, the jut of Ressler's chin, Samar's pursed lips. Nobody speaks.

He doesn't need to look at Dembe.

He forces himself to look at Liz.

Her face is thinner, her jaw tight below the glitter of her deep-set eyes. Her hair is pulled back tightly from her face and her hands are stuffed deep into her pockets.

She gives him a little shrug, and her lips soften into a sad little smile. A smile of apology.

Then she looks up.


	12. Roles Reversed

The black helicopter sweeps into view with shocking speed, the pool of light centering on Red, but engulfing them all, machine guns taking overwhelming command of the scene.

"Don't move, Reddington!" booms an amplified voice from above.

Liz steps forward, pushing Aram aside, then takes Cooper's arm.

"Your orders, sir?" she says, drawing him away from Charlene and the others, away from Red.

Liz bends her head, puts her mouth close to Cooper's ear.

"Kill or capture, sir?"

Cooper blinks at her, then glances over at Charlene, who has wrapped her arms around herself and is watching them, standing with her back to Red and his gun.

He gives a little shake of his head.

"I'll need to make a call," he says, fumbling in his pocket.

Liz watches him as he scrolls to find the number, the glowing red dial of the phone a point of light between them, then dials.

Cooper takes a deep breath, about to speak, when she reaches out and lifts the phone from his hand.

"It's Connelly," she says briefly. Even from this distance, she registers the moment Red briefly closes his eyes, the miniscule twitch of his lips.

"Agent Keen!" 

Cooper's visible dismay is no less than her own interior wailing about his betrayal. She aches for Charlene.

Liz tilts her face up and signals with one arm to the helicopter, which lifts and circles away, shutting off the light as it rises.

Cooper raises his head, squares his shoulders.

"I was under orders, Agent Keen," he says softly. "We both know who the traitor is, now don't we?"

She gives a quick shake of her head.

"We need to go." Samar turns her head and tries again. "Liz, we need to go."

Liz takes Cooper's arm and walks him slowly back to stand before Red. Charlene sobs, just once, behind her.

She looks down to meet Red's upturned gaze, his face tilted, his mouth working unhappily.

She knows the smell of his breath in the morning, the taste of the skin at his hairline, the feel of her breath fluttering his chest hair against her mouth and nose when she wakes pillowed above his heart.

She doesn't know what he will do next. And she's led her friends to this place, to watch her find out.

"Harold, you should have come to me," Red says, looking away from Liz to the grave face of the man at her side.

Cooper just shrugs.

"Ray, please. Have mercy." It's Charlene, her face wet with tears. Liz didn't realize that she had ever met Red. "He has so little time left. Have mercy."

Red raises an eyebrow, and Cooper taps the side of his head, then gives a short nod.

"Cancer. Inoperable."

"We need to go." 

It's Dembe. He's right. There are approaching sirens in the background.

Red looks over at Liz. But she has no answers for him.

"I trust you to make the right choice," she says softly. "We can all live with your decision."

He winces.

Then he looks over at Charlene. Away from Liz.

"Take him home. He retires immediately." Red raises his voice slightly, the menace obvious even as he tucks his gun away. "If he calls Connelly again, if he threatens the task force, it will be both of you." 

Red stands, tugs at his cuffs for a moment. Looks back at Charlene.

"And your nieces. All three of them."

She nods, trembling.

Red looks back at Liz without expression, then past her to Dembe.

"Well? Are you coming?"

His bodyguards douse the torches, turning the courtyard dark.

Liz blinks at the sudden darkness, hears the rustling behind her as her friends turn to leave.

"Both of us?"

It's Dembe, stepping to her side, so close she smell the familiar pine scent of his aftershave.

There's a pause. A long, long pause.


	13. Departure

Red can feel the disapproval emanating from his bodyguards as he stands between them in the darkness.

They need to get out of here.

He wants Dembe at his side so badly.

But Liz? 

Red still doesn't know what he wants any more.

Betrayals by Madelaine Pratt always felt like foreplay. Like the type of game two criminals ought to play together.

What he felt for Liz, before he was shot, was so pure. But she's not his salvation, his light in the darkness, his second chance.

She's just a woman, human as he is himself.

Oh, he does know what he wants. An impossible world, forever lost in the past. As always.

"Very well," he snaps, then turns to make his way out the back gate of the courtyard to his waiting vehicle less than a block away.

His guards take the front seat, and Red finds himself boxed in the center back seat between Dembe and Liz as they automatically fan out and scan the scene before entering the car.

It will be at least 30 minutes before they reach the latest safe house, even in the absence of traffic late at night.

Red takes a deep breath, trying to maintain his composure. He can feel them on either side of him, Dembe relaxing, Liz growing tenser by the second.

He clears his throat.

"You took a chance, assuming my guards wouldn't shoot anyone to reduce the odds."

Dembe shifts in his seat, spreading his legs a little, the comforting pressure of his big shoulder against Red so familiar.

"None of us drew when you did," he says. "They couldn't eliminate any of us as an ally."

Red chuckles a little hollowly.

"You all were, weren't you?"

"We still are." Liz sounds so determined.

He's going to have to look at her. He can smell her perfume, feel the warmth of her at his side.

"So you want to go on with the blacklist?" Red can't restrain the biting sarcasm.

"We'll have to deal with Connelly first." Liz sounds so matter of fact. "But afterward, yes, I think we could still do some good. If there's still any value in it, for you?"

Of course there's value. Aside from the search for answers, Red is ridding the world of his hand-selected list of the worst of the worst.

Doing some good, which she must know he values.

"Why did you do it, Lizzie?"

He has to ask again. He has to know, to shape his mind around it. If they are ever to consider going on, going forward.

Because most days, he never wants to speak with Elizabeth Keen again.

She doesn't pretend to misunderstand him.

"I never thought it would go that far." Her voice is quiet, reflective. "Dembe and I thought a week, not much more. And since you weren't in any shape to make the decision..."

Dembe lays his hand on Red's knee, briefly engulfing it in the heat of his big palm.

"Raymond, Elizabeth and I have talked and talked about this."

Red turns to look at Dembe's earnest face.

"Even now, we have not come up with a better solution."

Red swallows hard.

It did work. He is alive and safe. But his hard-won equilibrium is shattered, perhaps forever.

That's not their, her, fault. Red has hidden his feelings from Liz for so long, allowed her to believe she was an obsession, a puppet, a means to an end.

He doesn't even know how to describe to her how painful it was to put on his suit and fedora. To return from being her beloved husband, to living as a wanted criminal once again. Even the wealthy, powerful version of Raymond Reddington he's constructed so carefully over the last twenty years. 

Those last two days. He can't ask her here, in the car. He'll wait until the safe house.


	14. The Safe House

The car jounces to a stop after more than five minutes crawling up the rutted dirt road.

The house is long and dark, buried among the trees at the foot of some low hills. The wood shingled roof hangs low over the front porch, lined with rustic wooden rocking chairs.

"Where do you want them?" The guard doesn't make an effort to lower her voice, standing at the open trunk of the car with her eyes fixed on Red. 

Red shrugs.

"Anywhere - they can choose their own rooms." He waves one hand casually towards the house, then turns his back on the car. "God, I need a drink."

The other guard has already unlocked the door and is flipping on some lights. 

Liz looks over at Dembe.

"Thank you," she says simply, and he puts his arms around her and hugs her tight.

"You're welcome."

She didn't expect what he did. Liz doesn't know how to set things right with Red, but this is already so much more than she believed she would ever have again. Her pulse is racing, not settled at all by Dembe's show of affection.

"Go on inside," says the guard brusquely, as Dembe takes a step toward the trunk as if to assist with the luggage. "Pick your rooms."

Her features are regular, the sheen of her pale blonde hair so lovely, but her tone and the flash of her perfect teeth are ugly, almost aggressive.

As the guard starts to remove the luggage from the trunk, Liz notices Dembe's ballistic duffel, then the leather satchel she purchased in Zurich. Red has been traveling with their clothing as well as his own.

She assumed their things had all been abandoned at the clinic.

As she enters the entry hall of the house, closely followed by Dembe and the baggage-laden guard, there's a light in the large room to the left, and the clink of ice in a glass. The guard motions towards the right. A long hall, lined with closed doors. The house extends back much further than it appears from the front.

"My room," the guard says at the first door.

"My employer," at the second.

Dembe stops at the third door, opens the door after a few moments of silence.

After flipping on the overhead light, the guard drops his duffel bag on the wide bed. It's made up with red and black plaid blankets and what appear be new flannel sheets. The window is covered by heavy, floor-length curtains.

"Be sparing with the water," she says, opening the door of the attached bathroom and briefly turning on the lights. Checking each room for threats. "We're on well water here."

Liz steps back into the hall with the guard, waits until Dembe closes the door. There are several closed doors beyond Dembe's room, but she turns back the way she came.

She suddenly needs the answer to one question. Most urgently.

Liz opens the door to Red's room and flips the light switch. A room almost identical to Dembe's, the bed layered in wool blankets and flannel sheets, but there's evidence here of prior occupation, books stacked on the nightstand, a pile of newspapers on the floor beside the overstuffed chair under the window.

A day ago, a month?

The guard piles Red's bags into the closet and stands waiting.

"Where does your partner sleep?" Liz asks the guard. Her tone is idle, but her eyes are fixed on the neatly made bed. Her meaning unmistakable.

No answer.

Liz turns to see the guard staring at her suspiciously, still holding the satchel.

"Shall I ask Red?" Liz persists, suddenly sure of the answer.

The guard glares at her but finally responds. 

"We share the room next door. One of us is always awake. She's outside on patrol now."

Liz lets out a small sigh. Power games. She'd better win soon, and decisively.

"Throw my bag in with his," Liz says. "I'm ready for a drink as well."

The guard carefully places the leather satchel next to Red's three bags. Her eyes are wary now, her tone infinitely more respectful.

"Do you need anything else?"

She flips on the bathroom lights, runs her practiced gaze over the room once again.

Liz shakes her head. 

"I'll be out in a moment."

As soon as the door closes, Liz sits down hard on the edge of the bed, her knees shaking.

Red will probably send her away, down the hall or perhaps even back to town, but she's not leaving without a fight.

And if she wins? If somehow, he can be made to understand, to forgive her?

Liz rises and smooths the blankets flat once more. This ordinary bed. Will she sleep here with Red tonight?


	15. Drinks

As Liz enters the room, Red grits his teeth for just a moment before looking up to greet her.

Her dark hair is loose around her shoulders, and she's changed her top, from a black tunic to a loose turquoise blouse. Diamonds sparkle at her ears.

Clothing and jewelry from Switzerland. Red braces himself, but she just smiles briefly at him before strolling over to the bar to mix herself a drink.

"Have you been monitoring Stephen's broadcasts?"

He looks back at Dembe, shakes his head apologetically.

"No, but they've been recorded. I just haven't had time."

"Perhaps tomorrow we can make some decisions together?"

Red nods and takes another sip of his scotch.

He's sitting on the couch, with Dembe in a deep chair opposite him. Talking about their ongoing operations in various parts of the globe. This feels blessedly normal.

Liz takes a seat on the couch beside him, slipping off her shoes and curling her feet up under her.

"This is so good," she exclaims, taking a slow, deep drink of her scotch. She wasn't much a drinker when he met her.

Dembe raises his glass and she toasts him silently in the air.

Red can feel an unspoken conversation vibrating between them.

"Don't mind me," she says. "Go on."

She sips her scotch as they talk, fetches the ice bucket and refills all their glasses, placing the bottle on the table in front of Dembe. Effacing herself until he's still physically aware of her, the soft hum of his desire a rising note the longer she sits there drinking, but not an intrusion on the pure pleasure of reconnecting with Dembe once again.

Red holds out his glass, watches as Dembe pours. There's something so satisfying, so relaxing about drinking with this man. It's not just the alcohol. 

Ultimately, it's knowing that Red can drink himself under the table if he wants to, and Dembe will pour him into bed and keep guard over him when he can't guard himself.

That's all they did. Kept him safe.

Red turns the question over in his mind. Would he have lied to Liz, even convinced her they were married, to save her life?

Of course.

But he's positive he would never have touched her that way. Never crossed that line.

"Raymond?"

He's lost the thread of their conversation. Dembe wants to know about China.

Red chuckles wearily.

"Can we talk more tomorrow?" he suggests, swirling the last of his scotch in his glass.

"Of course."

"Red?"

Liz tilts her head as Dembe rises to say good-night, waits awkwardly until Red stands and reaches for him, pulls him into a long embrace.

"Good-night." Moments after Dembe disappears down the hallway, Red hears the sound of one door opening and closing, then a few seconds later, another. 

"Red?" Liz is almost whispering.

He stands there, looking down at her, so small in her corner of the couch. She's only had two full drinks, if he counted correctly, but her blue eyes glisten up at him.

He needs to ask her the question again, but as he tries to find the words, they all run together in his mind. She's looking up at him with what he would absolutely swear is desire, which makes no sense to him at all, not after the way he's treated her. 

After everything that now lies between them.

Her actions today demonstrated her loyalty. Her absolute commitment to his safety.

Red rubs the back of his head with his thumb.

He didn't want her here. Now all he wants is to pull her body against his own, finish what they started at the clinic.

No, not finish it. Red wants it to go on and on, that make-believe world.

He wants to beg her to explain herself, how she could do that to him. And why. Endlessly, why.

"It's time for bed, Lizzie," he says instead.

"OK, Red."

She puts out her hands, and perforce he takes them in his own, levers her up onto her feet.

Her eyes are searching his face. He could pull her to him, kiss her senseless. 

Unless of course Liz backs away. They haven't spoken for weeks.

He lets go of her hands, turns for the hallway that leads from the front door to the bedrooms without another word. As he passes the first door he pauses.

Most nights, Red asks one of the guards to double-check his room before he enters. But he's quite sure Dembe checked it just a moment ago.

He shuts the door of his own room behind him, ignoring Liz following close on his heels.


	16. Explanations

Liz stands outside Red's bedroom, staring at the closed door barring her way.

Should she knock? Just walk in?

The door opens, just a crack, revealing Red with his shirt partly unbuttoned, a puzzled look on his face.

"Lizzie?"

"May I come in?"

He holds the door wide for her, gives a glance up and down the hall before shutting it.

"Care to explain?"

He gestures toward the closet.

Liz shrugs. Alcohol doesn't always loosen her tongue; sometimes it renders her almost mute. Red won't want to hear what she wants to say, anyway.

"You said to pick a room."

He raises his brows.

"So you picked mine?"

She shrugs again.

Red continues undressing as they talk, setting down his watch, slipping his belt from his belt loops.

He hangs each item of clothing up carefully, deliberately.

"Really, Lizzie? Out of all the rooms in this house?"

His fingers are at his waistband, and he looks down as if trying to decide whether to proceed.

"Out of all the rooms in the world," she says, staring at him a little helplessly as his eyes rise to meet hers, sharp and suspicious.

She leans against the wall beside the open closet door. 

"Tell me to go, Red?" 

His body goes very still as he catches and absorbs the reference. Then Red takes a step toward her, his eyes intent, his face expressionless.

"Those last two days," he says in a low voice. "Tell me why, Lizzie. Just tell me why."

Liz can feel her eyes widening, her heart pounding out of sync with her breathing so that she's dizzy for a moment. His breath smells of scotch; she knows the taste of his mouth, remembers the slide of her tongue against his teeth. The way he kissed them both breathless and then laughed like a boy, his eyes filled with light.

"It was you." 

Liz can feel her eyes filling with tears, and she brushes them away with her fingers, blinks wetly at him standing so still in his undershirt and slacks, his bare feet spread as if for balance.

"I ... just ... Red?"

She wants to beg him to forgive her, but she can't answer his question.

Because I wanted you?

So utterly inadequate, anything less just cowardice. 

No excuse that Liz never explored the back roads of her own desire until she met him; never truly gave her heart until Red opened himself to her, showed her what a real marriage could be.

Perhaps that's the question she can hear, the one he isn't asking.

Without any hope of success, Liz pushes herself away from the wall, aims her face at the curve of his neck, her arms so carefully curved about him, barely touching, as her cheek comes to rest against the soft fabric of his undershirt.

Cologne and sweat and something more, beyond the salty sting of her tears.

His arms just as careful, his hands hesitating before he touches her.

"Lizzie?"

That deep voice, rumbling as she presses her ear against his chest, just above the scar she still hasn't seen. His heart beating, the feel of him breathing. Alive. Liz promised herself she could bear anything, if only he survived.

His fingertips so delicately laid against her back, she can barely feel them through the thin silk of her blouse.

But he isn't pushing her away.

Liz just stands there and breathes. The scent of him, the warmth, the bulk of his body that makes her feel small and safe.

The way Red can make her believe that she's beautiful with just a glance, the slightest tilt of his head.

Her tears are soaking his neck and the thin fabric of his undershirt, and she can feel him waiting for her answer.

"Red?"

She speaks without lifting her head from his chest, her eyes pressed tightly closed. Red didn't want her here. But he's listening.

"Yes, Lizzie?"

"Please let me stay."

"Stay?"

She can't say anything more, or she'll start sobbing like a child.

Instead, Liz feels for the loose folds of his undershirt, still tucked deep into his slacks, tugs them loose until her fingers find the soft curves of his waist below the taper of his broad chest. The ridged flesh of his sides where the scars begin.

"What do you want from me, Lizzie?"

So much better. That question, she can answer.


	17. Making a Choice

“Whatever you’re willing to give me.”

Red holds her lightly, feels her breathing against his neck.

Trying to process her words, as her hands continue gently stroking his waist and sides. Her nails catch briefly at the waistband of his trousers, then retreat.

There it is. Liz has the most uncanny quality of turning his defenses back on him.

Now that he gets to choose, what does he really want?

Pulling away from her hands, he sits down heavily on the bed behind him, looks up at her with a shake of his head. 

“May I stay?” she asks, her fingers at the top button of her blouse. This isn't going to help him think at all, but Red can't bring himself to say no.

He nods, his mouth going suddenly dry. 

She undresses quickly, perhaps afraid that he’ll change his mind, hanging her things in the closet beside his jacket, vest and shirt.

Then Liz stands naked before him, as if expecting judgment.

The taste and feel of her soft skin, the way she took his hand in hers and moved it just where she wanted his touch. Wholly confident in his desire, his adoration. Every inch of her beyond responsive.

He can’t resist reaching out and running his thumbs up and down the curves of her hip bones.

“You could have told me I wasn’t well enough,” he says, not looking at her face, just the beautiful young body he’s barely begun to explore. Is this a plea for forgiveness, an attempt at expiation? Is she punishing herself, or just him?

“I wanted you.” The shame in her voice makes him glance up quickly, but she’s looking away, her face flaming.

“And?” Red can tell there’s more from the tension in her shoulders.

Liz bites her lower lip, then looks down at him.

“I wanted it to be real,” she whispers. “Oh Red, I …”

She breaks off, her eyes searching his face.

Pretending. Was it all pretend? A younger woman with a rich, older husband who adored her. A world without danger, without enemies. Red can feel his face going still as stone, his heart hammering desperately.

Liz shakes her head, her eyes widening.

“No, Red, it’s you. I just want you.”

She bends down until her lips are almost touching his. 

“Love me, Red,” she begs, the words from their last night, when she locked the door of his room. Only that time, she spoke them in such a deep, sultry voice, sliding out of her clothes piece by piece at his bedside as she teased him with her eyes. No sadness, no shame.

“Get in bed,” he whispers harshly. Not kissing those tempting lips. “Or leave.”

Then he retreats to the bathroom to finish getting ready for bed. Hoping she’ll be waiting for him, wondering if she’ll be gone.


	18. All

Liz slides beneath the covers and listens to the sounds of water running, the clatter she identifies by sound as Red’s shaving gear. He looked so bleak, so unhappy.

But he’s allowing her to stay. Liz turns on a bedside lamp, hops up and turns off the overhead light. The low, warm glow turns the room shadowy, intimate.

She’s barely back in bed before Red emerges nude from the bathroom, crossing to the closet to hang up the clothing draped over his arm. 

Liz assesses him automatically. A little heavier, his shoulders bulking up once again, his scar beginning to fade like the others marring his skin.

He folds back the covers, slides in beside her. Turns his head on his pillow and blinks wearily at her before speaking. His voice low and resonant, his eyes gazing past her into the depths of his memory.

“I once watched a pair of bald eagles flying together over the Chilkat Valley. They would turn, and spin, and fall through the air until I thought they would almost hit the ground. Just fascinating, as if they were dancing in three dimensions.”

Red pauses, blinks at her again, as Liz tries to make sense of yet another story.

“As if they were daring gravity to do its worst.” 

He gives her a tentative smile, his thick eyelashes lowered so she can barely see his eyes.

Liz clears her throat.

“Some things are worth the risk of being smashed,” she whispers back.

Very hesitantly, Red reaches his arm from beneath the covers, pulls her to rest her head on his chest. Liz gives a long sigh of relief, and cuddles close to him, pressing kisses to his scar, rubbing her face against the soft hair of his chest as she traces the curve of his belly appreciatively, then lays her hand on him without pressure.

All. She wants it all.

“Yes?” she whispers. Feels the answer at once, but waits for his words.

“Yes, Lizzie, love me.” 

Such an odd note in his deep voice. She doesn't know what he's thinking, what changed his mind. 

Liz rises on her knees above him, then leans down to kiss his lips, rocking gently and almost whimpering at the pleasure. So good, after so long, so much wanting, so good.

Then his lips draw back, exposing his teeth, as if the pleasure is almost painful, and she rides him harder, watching him breathe, feeling his hands tightening at her hips, clutching at her. Red strains, and she leans into that strain, then away, slowing for kisses, then speeding up once again.

This is new, the way she doesn’t need to be afraid to jostle him. They can’t hurt each other, even if the broken sounds coming from Red’s lips are closer to oaths than endearments. 

Almost mindless, Liz brings them both over the top with an effort that leaves her glistening with sweat, panting as she collapses against his chest, her knees sore, the echos of her pleasure a rill of delight that recedes slowly, leaving her lax and spent.

So perfect, beyond her every hope for this night. Red knows her so well, has surely heard what Liz can only say with her body.


	19. Resolution

Red wakes silently, pinned beneath an unfamiliar weight.

Liz is clinging to him in her sleep, her body molded to his as if she's tried to clamber atop him as he lies flat on his back, head perfectly positioned in the center of his down-filled pillow.

He strokes her back softly with one hand, brushes her long, loose hair from his neck with the other.

She stirs slightly, and he feels her lips pressed to his chest, just above his scar.

Their bodies fit so perfectly, as he had hoped and dreamed they might. Her responses as passionate as his own. 

Holding Liz close, Red vows she will never know why he sent her away. 

She doesn't need to know how deeply those two days are burned into his wounded heart. 

Let her imagine it was outraged pride, or poor judgment due to pain medication, or even fear. Fear that she would reject him, or that her life and career would be destroyed if she didn't. 

Forever. Red had two days in her arms, believing they had forever. A gift from the fickle gods, a golden world that may never exist in reality.

For now, he'll take whatever Liz offers him, and if that means passion rather than love, and secrets rather than regret, he'll carry that burden willingly.

They'll go back to their pursuit of blacklisters, their separate and busy lives, but perhaps, just perhaps, there will also be the bliss of some nights spent together.

Mornings like this one, when he wakes to find her close to him, clinging to him as if she loves him, his deepest, most secret of dreams brought once again to life.


End file.
